


masquerade

by cattrills



Category: Original Work
Genre: Autistic Character, Body Horror, Canon Autistic Character, Flowers, Language of Flowers, Mild Gore, Original Character(s), Plant Symbolism, Short One Shot, Symbolism, flower shop, flower symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 14:46:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21339958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattrills/pseuds/cattrills
Summary: pros·o·pag·no·sia/ˌpräsəpaɡˈnōZH(ē)ə/the inability to recognize the faces of familiar people, severe cases sometimes including oneself.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	masquerade

I have forgotten who I am.

Every day, once I wake, I put on a face that is not my own. Around some, for example, I am Aster: a soft-spoken, patient and compliant woman with fluttering eyelashes and rosy, freckled cheeks. Around others, I am Lilac: assertive, confident and strong-willed, with sharp cheekbones, full eyebrows and a strong jaw. Every person I interact with regularly has a meticulously crafted persona just for them, none of which being my own, authentic self, despite a few exceptions. For individuals like myself, this is a normal and encouraged practice.

I was eight years old when I received my first, newly-gifted mask, and I was not very fond of the concept that was putting somebody else’s flesh on my own to wear instead of my true appearance. I can remember, as I examined the parcel, the name  LILY  had been printed on the back in bold, along with each characteristic the features would supposedly pass onto me:  OBEDIENT, MILD-MANNERED, SHY.  Disgusted feelings sunk into my chest like a stone falling into deep, dark waters, as I delicately took it out of its sterile packaging. It had smelled astringent; the slightly putrid odor of decaying matter and chemical preservatives wafting through the air. Attached to the package was a return address, which, upon inspection, belonged to my best friend at the time.

The emotion I felt in that moment is one near indescribable; a sickening mess of rage, disgust, and anxiety had boiled over like pasta being cooked on the stove at too high of a temperature, and I shut down. I did not emerge from my room for the rest of the evening.   
The next day, I came into school with my new face, neon magenta contacts stinging my eyes, and skin prickling at the spots where my mother had temporarily stitched the flesh to fuse with my own. As I took on the characteristics of Lily, I finally began to fade into the background with the other children, and was more or less left alone from then on.   
Since then, I have not left the sanctity of my home unless I am under this false pretense, today being no exception. As my bleary eyes crack open, I stretch my back with a satisfying  pop. I hastily step out of the twin-bed, tiptoeing to avoid walking on the heaps of dirty laundry littering the wooden flooring. The musty scent of damp weather looms over the room, engulfing my senses in a strange feeling of unease. Air so thick it’s near-tangible. Revolting.

I silently pad into the bathroom, wrestling the door shut and bending down on my knees, making sure to  not look at myself in the mirror . Fumbling around in the under-sink drawer, I rifle around until I find the worn and rusty antique key that unlocks the overhead cabinet in which I keep all of my many faces. Out of all things in this shabby apartment, my cabinet was the only thing that I was capable of keeping in immaculate condition. Pristine cherry-wood, no scratch or blemish in sight, with intricate celtic carvings all along the sides and its grooves. Carefully inserting the key into the slot, I turn my wrist and the cabinet opens with a  click.  I crack the doors open, disinfect my sutures, and try to ignore the searing pain as the needle presses into my face.

Neon eyes bore into my soul like maggots, and I feel as though they can see that I’m masquerading as someone I am not. I cover the stitches, I wear the magenta contacts, and yet they can still  see me . My coworkers, my boss, my customers, they somehow  know  that I am not what I parade myself around as. At work, I am Amaryllis; intelligent, whimsical and kind, with soft and round features. It is a small flower shop in which I work, arranging bouquets and tending to the plants. The shack, illuminated with fairy lights of assorted pastel shades, air perfumed by the scent of flowers, is usually a content environment for me; tender and tranquil. However, the perfume of the hydrangeas I am trimming is being tainted by the rancid smell of my mask withering away. Even so, I push down my anxiety and press forward.   
  
“Amaryllis,” A voice sneers.   
  


I feel a pit of dread in my stomach at that voice. That annoying, grating voice belongs to an even more annoying, grating personality.    
  


“What do you need, Devin?” I inquire politely, briefly looking up from the hydrangeas I am tending to and forcing myself to meet his sickening yellow gaze. I flashed a kind smile, suppressing the wave of nausea that the lemon-colored eyes gave me upon looking at them. A wicked smirk is plastered across his angular features, olive skin glowing menacingly underneath the fairy lights. He licks his cracked lips, and pushes an errant curl behind his ear.

“I dunno man, I was just wondering… It smells pretty nasty in here, don’t ya think? Kinda like some random ham sandwich that’s been in your fridge for like, a month or whatever... anyways, you got any idea what it is,  Amy? ” I can hear the smile in his voice, I can smell him as he leans in closer to whisper my “name”, and I do not have the energy to look at his smug expression. I more fervently trim the hydrangeas.   
  
“Hm… It could be you, maybe you should shower,” I shot back, praying that he would ignore the fact that I had broken character. Clearing my throat and plastering a smile on  my face, I add, “Is that all? I’d be glad to help if you really needed something,” I lied through my teeth.   
  
Unfortunately for me, though, Devin was observant. And Devin does  not enjoy  being mocked, no matter how poorly you do so. His arrogant smirk dropped instantly, and he let out a low growl, leaning in impossibly closer until his face was mere inches apart from my own. 

“Listen,  retard , don’t fucking test me. I know what kinda sick freak you are. You have to go around every day, wearing a random dead person’s face and some cheap-ass colored contacts to to fit in just because you’re not normal. I’ve known people like you all my life,  Amy,  if that’s even your name,” Devin spat, malice dripping from each syllable as he ranted. I stopped trimming the hydrangeas.   
  
I could not answer. 

Silence, apparently, was not the correct response.

Devin groaned ferociously, grabbed my chin, my skin burning where his hand came into contact with me, and he forced me to look at him. “Y- Wh- can you  look me in the eyes when I talk to you? Did nobody tell you how fucking  rude  that is—“ 

Devin’s expression dropped, as his sun-kissed skin turned to a deathly pallor, his fluorescent eyes blowing wide in disgusted horror. Perplexed, I looked down a few inches, and this is the moment in which I heard the messy sloshing sound as the connective tissue in the mask completely gave way, a chunk falling apart onto his hand and dripping onto the table. It felt as though time had stopped in its tracks. 

I could not move.   
I could not respond.   
I could not think.

And then I heard the most gut-wrenching, blood curdling scream I have ever had the displeasure of hearing in my life. But it was not Devin who was screaming, nor was it any bystanders.   
  
It was me.

I couldn’t stop. The wave of emotions crested and crashed full force, like the erratic ocean waves during a hurricane, all of these years trying to keep up this charade completely  wasted  and I had to get out. I had to get out  I had to get out-

I ran. I ran home until I could run no longer, and my lungs burned with a fiery vengeance.

I barely registered the front door slamming shut behind me. I barely registered rushing into the bathroom and ripping the well-kept cabinet off of its hinges. I barely registered the searing pain as I ripped the sutures out of my skin with my bare hands, mask completely falling apart as I did so. I barely registered frantically removing those nauseating magenta contacts, eyes stinging, dripping with tears, irritated. And when I finally collected myself, if one could even call it that, I willed myself to look at my reflection.    
A pair of identical obsidian eyes met, trailing across each individual feature; the feather-like raven lashes, the loose midnight curls framing soft features, dark eyes sunken and  exhausted , button nose decorated with a small beauty mark at its bridge, full lips chapped and scabbed from constant chewing; and then I could not suppress the wave of sickness as my eyes skated across the many pin-prick scars and scabs adorning the corners of my face, small streams of blood beading at the areas in which I ripped out the sutures; a stark contrast against the ivory skin beneath it. Gently, I brought my hand up to touch the tender flesh, red and angry with inflammation. It stung, and I remembered.   
  
“Cadence,” I breathed, voice raw and  so tired,  “My name is Cadence.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was for a creative writing horror short assignment, I decided to post it here! It’s supposed to be a metaphor for what autistic masking is like and how horrifying it is for us.


End file.
